


Before You Close the Door on Me

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, Breakup, Breakup Sex, Consensual Sex, Happy Ending, M/M, Vulnerable Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: “I think we should break up,” Jack says, and he does so with a heavy heart, even if it’s easier to say it to his back than his face.Brock pauses with his hand inside the shopping bag. He nods. “Yeah, I guess we should.” He finally moves his head to look at Jack. “Breakup sex?”





	Before You Close the Door on Me

Jack likes to think it’s Cap’s fault, but truth is, he and Brock had problems before he was found and brought to SHIELD.

Looking back, he can’t pinpoint the exact moment this thing between them started. They were always drawn to each other, like a child to a box of matches. They were in a hurry to take as much as they could before the ever-looming death claimed one of them, like teenagers, fierce and careless, stealing kisses in secret, having sex whenever they could, because maybe tomorrow, tomorrow anything could happen.

But years passed, and they remained alive and together, and their puppy love progressed into something serious. They moved in to an apartment they decorated together, they made plans for the future, and they started calling themselves partners instead of claiming they were just friends. It was bliss until it wasn’t. The same traits that caused them to love fiercely and intensely, made them prone to fights and hatred. It was still fine as long as they made up in the bedroom.

Just like the beginning, Jack can’t pinpoint the ending, but it was around the time SHIELD found Cap. Brock was delegated to keep guard, and Jack said a few rude words about it being a dream come true for him, made some disgusting insinuations about Brock using the opportunity. For the first time, Brock didn’t rise to the attack, just looked at him with confusion before closing the door and leaving for New York.

Jack enjoyed the silence. He realized how tired he was of walking on egg-shells around Brock to avoid yet another fight. He remembered how nice it was to have a peaceful evening, just him, a can of beer, and a silly movie on TV. Brock must have needed a breather as well because he wasn’t sending any texts.

Weeks passed, Cap woke up, Brock came back, but the silence remained. They still talked at work, of course, but at home they were almost strangers. They started spending their time separately. Jack didn’t mind at first; after being forced to work together for hours, he needed some time alone. At the end of the day they’d end up in the same bed so it was still _fine,_ even if they barely touched each other.

When Jack realized this was all going the wrong way, that Brock was slipping out of his hands, it was too late. Suddenly he didn’t know how to talk to him anymore. More often than not, he was coming back to an empty home, the silence not peaceful anymore but oppressing, and he sat in an armchair with a phone in his hand, wanting to call Brock, but never going through with it. They tried having sex a few times, but it just wasn’t working out, and they’d fall asleep with their backs to each other. Jack would wake up alone, Brock having gotten early for a jog.

What didn’t change were the missions; risking his life to keep Brock safe was as easy as ever. Covering him with his body during an explosion was the simplest thing, and no one watched his six better than Jack did. It was when they boarded the quinjet and flew back home that Jack struggled with a simple word or touch. They’d eat dinner and Brock would go out wherever; he never said, and Jack never asked.

So Jack likes to think it started with Cap, but it’d probably happen regardless. Whatever was between them burned out, and as he’s watching Brock washing the dishes from his place at the table, a tumbler glass in hand, silence hanging between them thick and heavy like fog, he knows they’ll have to stop ignoring the issue one day. They’ll have to stop holding onto each other. Pack their things, sell the apartment. Move on. They could keep it civil; maybe they’d even go out for beer every once in a while, like they do with other teammates.

He grabs the pack of cigarettes lying on the table, takes one. Brock doesn’t tell him to smoke outside, just opens the window on his way out of the kitchen. Few minutes later Jack hears him put on boots and walk out.

He comes back hours later when Jack’s lying wide awake in bed. The bedroom door opens and Brock walks in without turning on the lights. He undresses, dropping his clothes on the floor. The mattress dips under his weight, and the smell of vodka hits Jack’s nose.

“Were you drinking alone?” he asks.

“For about the first twenty minutes.”

Jack doesn’t need to ask further to imagine Brock’s night; twenty minutes spent at the bar, drinking beer and seeking eye contact with patrons until somebody got interested. And then, then anything could happen. Jack remembers the time when he’d be angry and jealous. He doesn’t even care now, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

While Brock passes out beside him, he comes to a decision to end this.

It’s Saturday; Jack wakes up alone as usual. Brock can take longer to come back on their day off—actually, there’s no guarantee he’ll be back before midnight. There’s no point in sitting around, waiting for him, so Jack goes about his day.

He’s in a bath, reading, when he hears the front door unlock. He puts the book away, gets out of the bathtub, and once he’s fully clothed, goes to the kitchen where Brock’s unpacking groceries. Jack watches him for a moment from a doorway. Brock is turned with his back to him and doesn’t acknowledge him.

“I think we should break up,” Jack says, and he does so with a heavy heart, even if it’s easier to say it to his back than his face.

Brock pauses with his hand inside the shopping bag. He nods. “Yeah, I guess we should.”

Jack’s chest becomes even heavier, as if he expected Brock to disagree. Or to be surprised at least.

Brock still doesn’t turn to face him, but continues unpacking when he asks, “Will you want to transfer teams?”

Jack hesitates. “I haven’t considered it,” he admits. “We still work well together.”

He’s not sure, but he thinks Brock smiles at that.

“That we do.” He finally moves his head to look at Jack. “Breakup sex?” he asks with a timid smile.

Jack fidgets in place. He’s not sure why Brock would offer, considering they haven’t been having much luck in that area. But that’d be their last time, and their love may be dead, but it didn’t make Brock any less hot. Maybe it’s worth a try. He nods.

“I’ll just finish this, okay?” Brock’s focus returns to the groceries.

Jack doesn’t say anything else, just goes to the bedroom. He sits down on the bed and, after a moment of thinking, takes off his t-shirt. He considers spreading out in an alluring pose, but he already feels more awkward than when he was seventeen and about to lose his virginity, and that wouldn’t help one bit.

Brock walks in also shirtless, with the same timid smile on. He sits down beside Jack, trying to take up as little space as possible, almost curling in on himself. It’s so unlike him, Jack just wants to stand up and leave. But he swallows thickly and wraps his arm around his waist. He’s not sure if he should kiss him, so he goes for his neck instead of his lips. He runs his hand up his abs and pecs, and Brock’s breath catches in his throat as Jack rubs his jugular with the tip of his tongue.

It should be hot, but it’s far from. Jack has never tried to have sex in a less sexy situation.

“I’m not feeling it,” he says, moving away. “Sorry, I can’t.”

He springs to his feet and puts his t-shirt back on. He leaves the bedroom without a second glance at Brock, who doesn’t call after him, doesn’t follow, doesn’t even move.

He doesn’t plan to end up in a pub when he goes out; he’s thought he’d just ramble over the neighborhood until he tires himself out, but soon he finds himself at the bar in one of the watering holes their neighborhood is full of. He’s not searching for company like Brock usually does; rather, he’s trying to desensitize himself with more and more beer. It doesn’t quite work out; even after his third, he can’t stop worrying about his foreseeable future, can’t stop dreading loneliness.

He's stalling even when he has enough of this place, his only alternative being home that doesn't feel very homely. But he knows he's postponing the inevitable, that he has to come back, so eventually he pays for the beer and walks out. The sun’s set already and the air gets colder, but Jack doesn't notice.

Brock's sitting in the living room when Jack gets back. He's holding a glass of wine, but it's not what catches Jack's attention—his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and—

And something changes. Something inside Jack breaks. He's not sure if it's the alcohol or just Brock looking vulnerable like this, but a sudden need to take care of him, close him in an embrace and make it all better grows inside him. He crosses the distance between them in a few strides, without even taking off his shoes, and sits down beside him, but when he tries to touch him, Brock shrugs him off, turning away from him. They sit in silence, Brock drinking his wine and Jack watching him.

Brock finishes his glass and puts it away on the coffee table, right beside an almost empty bottle. He rests his elbows on his thighs and wipes his eyes. Seeing his tears makes Jack realize how closed off he has been these past few months. Maybe that's what made Jack distance himself. Distance isn't what he feels now; a deep ache has set in his body as it yearns to reach out, curl around Brock and soak in his warmth, but keeps itself from doing so.

"I'll sleep on the couch," Brock says. "I'll pack my things tomorrow. You can keep this place but I want my half of the funds."

"I'm sorry," Jack manages to choke out.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, too." Brock sniffles. "But let's not pretend it was some deep thing. We were just having fun, it had to end." He cracks a forced smile. "So no hard feelings, yeah?" He slaps his thighs and stands up. "Gonna shower."

Jack knew the breakup wouldn't be easy, but he didn't expect it to hurt so much. Quite the opposite; he thought he'd be relieved after closing that chapter of his life. But that was when he thought his feelings for Brock were dead while they were only dormant, and just waking up by the cracks in Brock's composure like cries for help.

Jack can’t sleep that night. Neither can Brock; Jack hears the couch squeak in the living room whenever he turns from side to side, then when he gets up. He listens to him walk to the kitchen and open a bottle. A stream of liquid hits a glass.

It’s five when Jack gives up on trying to fall asleep, figuring that if the sun got up, he might as well. Brock’s sitting on the couch with a half-full glass in his hand, staring at nothing in particular when Jack comes in the living room. His eyes are still red. He gets up when he sees Jack, walks past him to the bedroom without a word. Jack hears him open the closet and drag a suitcase over the floor.

Brock packs up in record time because Jack’s still drinking coffee and scrolling through his Facebook feed when he shows up in the hallway, fully dressed and with a suitcase in hand. He pauses at the kitchen door, staring at Jack, but not saying anything; he’s never been great at goodbyes. Jack watches him for a bit before springing to his feet. Brock may say it was nothing serious, but they’ve been together for _years._ If Jack has to let him go, he doesn’t want to do it impersonally, like they’re nothing more than roommates. He wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him into a hug. Brock tenses up, but at least doesn’t push him away this time. After a moment, he hesitantly rests his hand on Jack’s hip, and then presses his face to the crook of his neck, his lips resting against his skin. It’s not a kiss, but it’s enough for Jack to duck his head and tip Brock’s up to catch his lips with his.

He tastes and smells of sour wine. It’s a hesitant and guarded kiss, but when Jack pulls away, Brock makes a sound of protest and chases his lips. He deepens the kiss this time, licking into Jack’s mouth and pressing himself flush to his torso. Warmth blooms inside Jack’s chest and spreads down as their kisses become more heated.

“How about that breakup sex?” Jack asks when Brock’s hands find their way from his chest to his butt.

Brock leans away to glare at him, but his blown pupils and flushed cheeks diminish the effect. “Oh, _now_ you want it. When I’m one foot out the door.”

“You aren't yet,” Jack counters. “Is that a no?”

Brock responds with another kiss, hungry in a way Jack barely remembers from their old days, that is definitely not a no. He stumbles and his back hits a wall as Brock pushes onto him with his whole body.

“Bedroom,” he growls against his mouth.

Brock doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs Jack’s wrist and leads him to the bedroom, his step sure and firm like he’s leading him to a fight. Once inside, he drops Jack’s hand to undress. Seeing this, Jack loses his clothes and is back on Brock in no time, his lips and tongue and teeth and hands exploring the body he hasn’t touched in weeks, that he didn’t remember he craved until it came the time to say goodbye. Now, suddenly, Jack doesn’t want to say goodbye, goodbye would be a disastrous mistake.

It is them saying goodbye.

Jack’s eagerness makes Brock sigh, and he shoves him onto the bed. Jack falls onto the mattress gracelessly. Brock wastes no time to straddle his lap, and they both groan at the feeling of their hard cocks nestled together between their stomachs. Brock keeps one arm around Jack’s shoulders and he kisses him breathless while the other hand reaches to his— _now only Jack’s—_ drawer and rummages in it for a moment. Jack’s still occupied with Brock’s lips, gripping his hips somewhat possessively when Brock pushes a tube into his hand. Jack breaks the kiss to look him in the eyes, feeling lightheaded already.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Fuck off, Rollins,” Brock breathes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

He holds Jack tight as he’s being opened up with slick fingers, his hands leaving bruises around Jack’s shoulders; holds even tighter when Jack curls his fingers and makes him squirm and moan for it. His arms are wrapped around Jack’s neck when he impales himself on his cock and rides it, pulling him in close, _closer_ , until he’s all Jack can breathe and he feels his musky smell on his tongue. Brock’s recklessly fast, like he’s in a hurry, like they’re back in the Triskelion’s interrogation room six years ago, afraid to get caught but yearning too much to keep their hands off each other. Jack tries to slow him down with the grip he has on his hips, muttering soothingly, _we have time, we have all the time in the world_ , until Brock believes him.

Now that Brock relaxes and slows down, Jack can fully indulge in the rare occurrence being inside him is, in the feeling of his velvety muscles twitching around his cock as he thrusts into him, drawing groans and whines. Brock doesn’t let up his hold even as he comes, painting their sweaty stomachs with hot spurts of white. He stays pressed flush against Jack, panting into his neck as Jack finishes inside him with a choked moan. They stay plastered together as they come down and reality creeps up on them. Jack knows they’ll have to move soon, that Brock will have to get up, get dressed, get the suitcase he dropped in the hallway, and leave.

Seconds pass, and Brock doesn’t seem to want to get off him. His heart is still frantic against Jack’s chest, his breath hot and damp on his neck, and his fingers gently kneading the flesh of Jack’s shoulders are his only movements. He holds him tighter still when Jack tries to lean away, a soft sound of protest escaping him. Jack can’t help a low chuckle.

“Just let me get the tissues,” he murmurs with a press of his lips to Brock’s temple.

One arm around him to reassure him, Jack reaches for a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand, and wipes their stomachs and laps. He takes another handful, pulls Brock off him and cleans him down there, too. Brock usually doesn’t let him take care of him like that, but this time he says nothing, just makes sure his hands are always on Jack, that he won’t slip away from him. Jack lies them down on the bed then, settling himself on top of Brock, their sweaty bodies sticking to each other just on the edge of uncomfortable. Brock can’t hide from him now, and Jack takes a good look at his flushed face.

“Will you want my help?”

Brock looks at him cautiously. “What with?”

Jack smiles. “Unpacking.”

Brock jabs the heel of his hand right below Jack’s collarbone, where he knows he’d been shot before. “Asshole.” His eyes become glassy but it’s just for a moment before they’re dry again.

Jack leans down to kiss him, still smiling against his lips.

“What the fuck just happened here?” Brock asks, frowning, when Jack leans away.

Jack shrugs. “No idea.” He raises his eyebrow. “‘Not a deep thing,’ really, Brock?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Brock asks seriously, this cautious look on him again.

“I’d say I was pretty deep inside you just now.”

Brock tries to elbow him, but misses. “I changed my mind. I’m leaving.” The moment he says it, his hold on Jack’s arm tightens.

“Go ahead.” Jack traces a line of kisses down his neck. “You know where the door is.”

“You will miss me when I’m gone,” Brock grumbles.

Jack doesn’t protest because, well, it’s true.

Brock falls asleep to Jack’s gentle kisses to his skin eventually, fucked out and worn out after his sleepless night. Jack shifts from him onto the mattress and watches him look peaceful and content.

He wakes up hours later to Brock spooning him, his arm firm around his waist.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know how many times I had to scrap scenes and change the, uh, "plot", for these stubborn bastards to stay together? It could go wrong in so many ways; it made me realize how fragile their relationship actually is.


End file.
